In the empty hours when thoughts
are dreams not realized, and hustles
of curtains cover windows and sight.
That is when the mourning begins.

Mourn for time that might not be.
For Grandchildren's giggles when
they are tickled, for their hugs when
they feel their little boy fears.

Mourn for conversations not be held,
for sharing that will not be shared.
For emotions that will not be felt, or
for experiences that will never occur.

In the quiet time when memories
are like pieces of an elaborate puzzle,
and clocks tick in impatient hurry
marching forwards, as they will do.

Pictures perform, these compelling
images that filter through the brain.
They warm and they freeze, each
according to their own special ways.

A storm of floating spectrum's that
sprinkle determination to stay slow.
Halt the spreading beads that collect
so forcefully from their birthplaces.

In the dawning of the coming ending
rises the many strands of what might be.
This, no one knows; no one emerges
with the bottles filled with answers.